by Merry Farmer
“Niall? Is that you?” a jovial voice rang out from farther along the platform.
Everett and Patrick—who had reached his side—turned to find a dazzlingly handsome man in an impeccable suit beaming at Niall as though angels on high were singing. He started forward at a swift pace, hazel eyes shining, sunlight catching in his unfashionably long curls.
“It’s so good to see you, my friend.” Joy rang in Lord Selby’s musical voice as he reached Niall and drew him into a tight embrace.
Everett’s brow shot up, and he glanced from the friendly reunion to Patrick as if to say, “That was unexpected.”
Patrick glanced back at Everett with the same sentiment in his eyes, whatever tension existed between the two of them temporarily forgotten.
Only Niall remained on edge, hugging Selby back before breaking away and putting deliberate distance between the two of them. “You look well, Blake,” he said.
“I feel well, now that you’re here,” Selby answered, smiling and staring at Niall as though seeing a vision. “It’s been far too long. Come. I have my carriage waiting.”
Everett exchanged another look with Patrick before the two of them moved along, trailing Niall and Selby as though they were suddenly supernumeraries in someone else’s drama.
“I’m sorry if this is an inconvenience,” Niall said as they crossed through the station and out to the street, where several carriages were lined up, ready to whisk newly-arrived passengers off to their final destinations. “I wasn’t sure where else to turn. My play is so close to completion, but without the proper funds to mount it, it might never see the light of day. And since your brother claims to be such a patron of the arts, I owed it to Mr. Jewel here and everyone else invested in the production to leave no stone unturned in bringing the play to the stage.” Niall stuck rigidly to the story they’d devised to gain entry into Lord Castleford’s estate.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Selby waved the explanation away as he led the three of them to his carriage. “I would do anything for you, you know that.” He glanced back to Niall with so much fondness in his eyes that Everett smirked. The man was a fool if he thought he was hiding anything. Or so he thought until Selby went on with, “I wish you would come up to Brayton Park, though. Annamarie and the children would be so delighted to see you. Annamarie hasn’t been able to talk of anything else but you since I mentioned I was coming here to meet you and take you to Montague for an introduction.”
Again, Everett turned to Patrick to see what he thought. Selby would never have had the audacity to speak of his wife—the woman who had come between him and Niall—with so much enthusiasm, and right in front of Niall’s face, unless he were either prodigiously stupid or being deliberately cruel. Selby didn’t seem to be either, though. Everett prided himself on knowing people and being able to read them. It was a professional skill that helped his acting craft. And Blake Williamson, Duke of Selby, seemed like nothing more than a merry soul with a cheerful disposition whom he would very much like to stay up all night drinking and carousing with.
“Where are my manners,” Selby said, his energy seeming to increase with every step, as they reached his carriage. “I haven’t properly introduced myself. Blake Williamson.” He extended a hand to Everett, who took it. Before Everett could return the greeting, Selby went on with, “It is a pleasure indeed to meet you a last, Mr. Jewel. I saw you in Hamlet a few years ago, and in more than a few musical reviews before and since. Your talent is astounding.”
Everett beamed from ear to ear before he could think better of it. At least Patrick already knew how much of a conceited prat he was. “I’m glad I could entertain you, Lord Selby,” he said, letting go of the man’s hand and executing a dramatic bow.
“None of that.” Selby made a dismissive gesture. “I’m Blake to my friends, and it would be a great honor for a man of your prominence to call me a friend.”
“But of course.” Everett grinned. When Blake’s gaze shifted to Patrick, he said, “Allow me to introduce you to my own personal copper, Officer Patrick Wrexham.”
Patrick held both his suitcase and Everett’s in his hands, so could only nod in acknowledgement. “My lord,” he said, then slunk around to the back of the carriage to hand the suitcases off to the driver.
The whole thing put Everett’s teeth on edge. Patrick should not be bowing and scraping, like a servant. He was as worthy as the rest of them, probably more so.
“I once entertained delusions of running off and making a life on the stage for myself,” Blake went on, ushering them all into the carriage, then knocking the ceiling to signal to his driver they were ready to depart. “But, of course, a duke cannot make a life on the stage.” For a fraction of a second, his affable demeanor cracked, and Everett caught a glimpse of real regret. The man seemed to be deliberately avoiding staring at Niall, who had taken a seat beside him, but squashed himself into the far corner so that no parts of their bodies touched. “I haven’t had a chance to act in years, but I keep up with the piano and play and sing to entertain my friends whenever possible.”
Everett arched an eyebrow. Hadn’t had the chance to act in years, indeed. The man was acting up a storm right before their eyes. Everett could see it now.
Before he could make a comment, Blake rushed on with, “Niall’s great-great-great-great-something-like-that-grandfather invented the piano, you know.”
“Did he?” For what felt like the thousandth time in the last ten minutes, Everett’s brow went up, and he turned to Patrick to gauge his opinion.
“Yes. Bartolomeo Cristofori,” Blake said. “He was Italian, of course, but we can forgive him for that. Right, Niall?” He laughed as though sharing a joke.
Niall laughed as well, but the sound was brittle and uneasy.
“You should have seen the first time I played for Niall,” Blake continued. “I took him utterly by surprise. No one expects a future duke—my father was still alive at the time—to play like that.”
Everett settled back in his seat, covering his mouth with one hand and trying not to look as though he were laughing at the hapless Duke of Selby. The man was clearly every bit as nervous as Niall, though he had the endearing habit of hiding his anxiety with frivolous talk and the sound of his own voice. Everett knew the tactic well. It was one he employed himself, one that got him into trouble more often than not. It was a revelation to have someone else taking up every inch of the space in the carriage besides him for a change. Patrick seemed downright stunned by the number of words Blake managed to squeeze out in the twenty minutes it took them to travel from the train station to the edges of a walled and gated estate on the edge of what he supposed was a moor of some sort. In those twenty minutes, Blake spoke more words than Patrick had likely spoken in his lifetime.
“This is Montague’s estate.” Blake shifted the topic of his endless, cheerful monologue from the theater and his and Niall’s university days—managing not to divulge so much as a hint of what their relationship might have been during those years as he spoke—to the landscape around them. “It has the hopelessly dull name of Castleford Estate. That’s far more of an encyclopedic description than a proper name for such a vast and unique property.”
“Unique?” Patrick asked, his expression betraying nothing.
“Well, there’s the menagerie, of course,” Blake said. “Montague always was interested in animals, ever since we were boys. He was forever keeping things in cages in the nursery. It’s unfortunate that so many of those things ended up dying.”
Everett’s eyes went wide and a chill shot down his back. “Unfortunate indeed.”
“I might have entertained the idea of running off to make a life on the stage,” Blake went on, “but I’m certain, if he hadn’t had the title and estates of an earl thrust on him, Montague would have joined the circus. He would have made the perfect lion-tamer.”
Several bells sounded in Everett’s mind. The man with the lion indeed. “One thing I learned about your brother whilst research
ing various men who would be patrons of the theater was that he keeps lions on his property. Is this true?”
“Only the one,” Blake said with a nod. “The lion and a few monkeys, along with several exotic birds, are all that remain of his menagerie now. He has far too many other concerns these days to maintain what he once had.”
“Other concerns?” Patrick asked. “What might they be?”
Blake shrugged. “I’m not entirely certain. My own affairs—my estate, my business ventures in London, and my wife and children—have kept me preoccupied.” The same hollow flash of guilt and sadness that had flickered around the edges of his expression returned. It was disconcerting on a variety of levels to Everett. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Blake was the sort of man who lived so deeply in denial about so many things, covering that denial with the veneer of a genial man, that he was no longer aware of any sort of truth at all.
“Oh, look,” Blake said, sitting straighter and glancing out the window. “Montague has come out to greet us. And he didn’t even know I was bringing you here today.”
Everett’s gut clenched so fast that he reached for Patrick’s steadying hand without being aware of it. Patrick pulled away just as swiftly, leaving the gaping pit in Everett’s stomach twice as wide. The carriage stopped, and the four of them exited, approaching the terrace in front of Montague Williamson, Earl of Castleford’s rather gothic-looking home.
“Blake.” Castleford narrowed his eyes at his brother. “What are you doing here, and who are these people?” His peevish expression jolted to surprise as he laid eyes on Everett. The recognition there relieved Everett. Castleford must truly have been a theater aficionado. Lionel’s plan wasn’t some sort of half-baked notion, meant to send them into the proverbial and literal lion’s den on the weakest of pretenses after all.
With that in mind, Everett turned on every ounce of charm and stage presence he could muster. “Lord Castleford, it is such a pleasure to meet you at last.” He advanced up the stairs to meet Castleford on his terrace as though they hadn’t just been formally introduced already, but as if they were old friends of equal rank. He extended his hand and flashed his most seductive smile. “And what a fascinating estate you have. Your brother pointed out several of its most interesting features to us just now, as we made our approach.”
Castleford was just intrigued enough by the role Everett was playing to take his hand and shake it without seeming the least bit offended. The second their hands touched, however, Everett wanted to turn and run. Montague Williamson was as different from his brother as night was to day. Where Blake was all warmth, good cheer, and, as Everett suspected, willful ignorance, Castleford was frosty, withdrawn, and conniving. There were no other words for the feeling the man gave Everett, except perhaps “disturbed”. Castleford’s hand was physically cold, and the man was so pale as to appear bloodless. He had the same hazel eyes and dark, curling hair as Blake, but they made him seem like a specter instead of a friend.
“I was just telling them about Leo.” Blake stepped forward with a bright smile. He crossed to his brother, embracing him and thumping him on the back. Castleford remained stiff as a statue as he was hugged, but when Blake stepped back, he continued to grin as though the two of them were the best of friends.
Everett didn’t know whether to roll his eyes at Blake or feel deeply sorry for him.
“Why are you here?” Castleford asked with the same formal bluntness as before. “I’m expecting company.”
“I simply had to introduce you to an old university chum of mine,” Blake explained. “This is Niall Cristofori, the esteemed playwright.”
The barest hint of surprise registered in Castleford’s icy expression. “Niall Cristofori. I’ve certainly heard of you. I very much enjoyed Fate’s Consequences when it was staged in eighty-seven. Though I was less enamored of Lady Jezebel last season.”
“I’m flattered that you know my work, my lord,” Niall said, stepping forward. He had remained silent since the initial greeting at the train station, but fell into the part he’d been asked to play as seamlessly as though he were vying for Everett’s place at the top of the bill. “It’s why I called in a favor from an old university chum to ask for an introduction,” he said, echoing Blake.
“Oh?” Castleford appeared genuinely intrigued.
“Yes, my lord,” Niall went on with a somewhat forced smile. “In short, I am on the verge of mounting an all-new musical play next season, Love’s Last Lesson, which will star Mr. Jewel here. But our most important financer has backed out, and I’m afraid we’ve been forced to travel door-to-door begging for funds in order for the production to continue.”
In spite of his sinister demeanor, Castleford seemed flattered. “And you thought of me as a potential patron?”
“Of course,” Everett said, playing up to the man in every way possible. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted another carriage rolling up the drive toward the house. “Your reputation precedes you, my lord. Everyone told us that you were the first person we should consult with for advice on how to proceed with the production.”
“I would be happy to discuss offering whatever help I can,” Castleford said, though his attention shifted more and more to the arriving carriage. “Your timing is less than desirable,” he went on. “As you can see, I was expecting other company. But I am certain my friends would be more than happy to meet such a fascinating and well-known personality.”
He stepped away from Everett, heading down the stairs to meet the newly-arrived carriage. Everett kept his smile firmly in place, nodding encouragingly to Niall, then risking everything to wink at a stony-faced Patrick.
His excitement for the ruse and optimism about its possible outcome shattered completely just seconds later as one of Castleford’s footmen opened the door to the newly-arrived carriage and Chisolm stepped out.
Chapter 14
Castleford Estate gave Patrick chills. He’d felt an air of menace about the place from the moment Selby’s carriage passed through the elaborate gate and onto the property. It may only have been his imagination, but the colors throughout the landscape seemed darker, and the great house itself looked like something out of a nightmare. As Everett, Cristofori, and Selby chatted, Patrick studied everything around him with narrowed eyes and a quickened pulse.
The first thing he spotted that chilled his blood were the spiked gratings underneath all of the windows on the ground floor. The spikes were sharpened and the gratings positioned in such a way that anyone who thought to escape from the house through the windows would be in serious danger of impaling themselves. Beyond that, the garden that was just visible around the left-hand side of the house had its boundaries marked by hemlock hedges. Patrick wondered how many of the other plants in that garden were deadly. Around the right-hand side of the house he could just barely make out the edges of tall cages. They were likely the former home of whatever animals had made up Castleford’s menagerie, but instinct told Patrick they’d been put to a more chilling use.
“Your timing is less than desirable.”
Castleford’s words jolted Patrick back to attention. He dragged his assessing gaze back from the edges of the house and focused on the man for a moment. In spite of his fine clothes and elegant demeanor, he was the last man Patrick would have wanted to meet alone in the dark.
“As you can see, I was expecting other company. But I am certain my friends would be more than happy to meet such a fascinating and well-known personality.”
Patrick turned to the approaching carriage at Castleford’s words. He caught a look of mild curiosity on Everett’s face—a face that was otherwise smiling and jovial, as if he were trying to woo Castleford into spilling all his secrets. Patrick had to give Everett credit for being a brilliant actor.
No sooner had the thought popped into his head than it was challenged. Chisolm and Eastleigh alighted from the carriage. The moment Everett spotted Chisolm, all color drained from his face. It didn’t matter that Patrick w
as so frustrated with Everett that it felt as though he might crawl out of his skin. It didn’t matter if he was jealous of Everett’s careless attitude toward his past lovers, or if he doubted the man’s intentions toward him. The memory of how Everett had reacted to the sight of Chisolm at Batcliff Cross Docks was enough to prompt Patrick to step up to Everett’s side.
“Steady on,” he murmured, touching a hand to the small of Everett’s back.
Everett sucked in a breath and nodded tightly. He then cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders as Castleford marched down the steps to greet his guests.
“Chisolm, Eastleigh,” Castleford said with a smile like icicles jutting from a roof in the dead of winter. “Welcome to Castleford Estate.”
“Castleford.” Chisolm nodded, shaking Castleford’s hand.
Eastleigh shook his hand as well. There didn’t seem to be a lick of warmth between the men. Patrick found that paradoxically encouraging. They were business partners, not friends, which meant, if push came to shove, they could be turned against each other.
“Who do we have here?” Chisolm asked as Castleford escorted him and Eastleigh up to the terrace. His eyes bored into Everett’s with the sort of cunning reserved for a dog he’d already beaten and knew would cower before him.
“Unexpected visitors,” Castleford said, moving to stand between the new arrivals and Everett, Patrick, and the others. “Surely, you have seen Mr. Everett Jewel perform.”
“Oh, I most certainly have,” Chisolm said in a low purr.
Every muscle in Patrick’s body tensed, ready for a fight. His mind was quick to write the story of what must have happened between the two men in the past.
“My wife dragged me to that monstrosity of a play you’re in right now,” Eastleigh said, studying Everett with interest, clearly more impressed with him than he let on.
